“Hello Director Gu, hello teachers. My name is Chen Xueran; I am twenty-two years old.”
Her voice was ethereal—soft and gentle, like raindrops pattering against autumn leaves.
“You will perform this scene,” Director Gu Na commanded, signaling her assistant, Jiang Fusheng, to hand over the script. Jiang had recently been reassigned to Gu Na’s side by Lu Zhiling herself.
Gu Na leaned toward Lu Zhiling, her voice a low murmur. “Her style is strikingly similar to yours. It’s… uncanny.”
Lu Zhiling typically favored long, flowing gowns made of light gauze—ethereal garments that complemented the refined temperament she had cultivated since childhood. She possessed the radiant, delicate beauty of a woman from Jiangnan (a region south of the Yangtze River, legendary in Chinese culture for producing elegant, poetic beauties). She looked like a figure that had stepped directly out of a classical ink painting.
“Many girls nowadays enjoy wearing Ruqun (a traditional Chinese outfit consisting of a wrap-around skirt and a top with crossed collars),” Lu Zhiling replied with a faint, inscrutable smile.
“But this is a modern drama about a wealthy family (often referring to ‘haomen’ or high-society power struggles),” Gu Na pressed. “She came to a modern audition in traditional dress?”
Lu Zhiling merely smiled, offering no further explanation.
On stage, Chen Xueran—despite her traditional attire—slipped into the modern role with haunting ease. She collapsed to the floor, her voice trembling with a piteous, fragile grace. “Why are you doing this to me? Am I nothing more than a pawn in your game?”
Tears pooled in her eyes, but as they fell, her expression shifted. The fragility vanished, replaced by a somber, terrifying resolve—a toxic cocktail of devotion and resentment. “Gu Qian… since your love ends here, let your life end here as well. That way, we can belong to each other for eternity.”
The room fell silent. Chen Xueran possessed an emotional range that eclipsed every other candidate. As the scene ended, the room erupted in applause. Even Lu Zhiling joined in, acknowledging the girl’s impeccable craft.
Chen Xueran rose, wiped her eyes, and offered a humble bow. “Thank you, teachers.”
Gu Na glanced at the resume, then at Lu Zhiling. “Well? Is she the one?”
“Director Gu has the final word,” Lu Zhiling said, meeting her gaze. The two women shared a look of mutual understanding; the choice was made.
As the auditions shifted to minor roles, Lu Zhiling began to succumb to aesthetic fatigue (a Chinese internet term for the boredom felt after seeing too many similar-looking beautiful people). She stepped away to the tea room for a reprieve.
As she reached for water, a coin skittered across the floor, ringing against the tiles before coming to rest at her feet. She knelt to retrieve it just as a clear, confident voice rang out.
“That coin is mine. Thank you.”
Lu Zhiling looked up. Standing in the doorway was Qiao Yang, the male lead Gu Na had just cast. He was undeniably handsome, with deep-set eyes and a straight nose. He flashed a charming, practiced smile as he extended his hand.
“You’re welcome,” she said simply, dropping the coin into his palm before turning back to the water dispenser.
“Secretary Lu, perhaps you don’t recall? I auditioned earlier. My name is Qiao Yang.” He stepped closer, his voice shifting into a tone that felt staged—dripping with a forced, ‘affected’ sweetness.
“I remember,” she replied coolly. He was a Best Actor winner; his face was everywhere.
“Secretary Lu, why waste your life working for others? With your looks, you’d be a goddess in the entertainment industry.” Qiao Yang spoke with a casual, dangerous intimacy, his hand reaching back to quietly click the door shut.
Lu Zhiling’s eyes turned ice-cold as she noted the locked door.
“Here, let me help you with that.” Qiao Yang lunged into her personal space under the guise of being helpful. As he reached for her cup, his fingers intentionally brushed against the back of her hand with a lingering, oily pressure.
She recoiled instantly. Crash. The glass shattered against the floor, splashing water across his trousers and the hem of her light skirt.
“Oh, heavens! My apologies—let me clean that for you,” Qiao Yang said smoothly. He knelt, clutching a tissue in one hand while his other hand reached out to boldly lift the hem of her skirt.
“That won’t be necessary,” Lu Zhiling snapped, her voice like a whip. “Please, have some self-respect (a heavy Chinese reproach implying one has lost their dignity or moral compass).”
Qiao Yang’s mask slipped for a heartbeat. He stood up, letting out a dry, mocking laugh. “I was just trying to help. Why bring ‘self-respect’ into a little spill?”
Lu Zhiling met his gaze with a chilling smile. They both knew exactly what he was hunting for.
Suddenly, a soft voice drifted from the hallway: “Mr. Bo, hello. I am Chen Xueran… please take care of me.”
Bo Wang? Lu Zhiling froze. The heavy, rhythmic sound of footsteps approached.
Qiao Yang’s eyes darted to the door. Sensing an opportunity for a scandalous frame-up, he suddenly lunged at Lu Zhiling. He didn’t grab her—he threw himself toward her, shouting at the top of his lungs, “Secretary Lu, please don’t! We just met—don’t pull at me like this!”
He expected her to back up in shock, pinning her against the wall in what would look like a passionate embrace to anyone walking in. But Lu Zhiling saw the trap instantly. As he lunged, she didn’t retreat; she pivoted, gracefully ducking under his outstretched arm.
Qiao Yang’s momentum carried him forward until he slammed face-first into the wall.
BAM!
The door was kicked open with such violence it nearly left its hinges. Bo Wang stood in the frame, his dark eyes sweeping the room, radiating a primal, predatory chill. Chen Xueran stood behind him, her face a mask of feigned shock.
Inside, they saw Lu Zhiling standing calmly. She picked up a full bottle of mineral water and, with practiced deliberation, poured it over the dazed Qiao Yang.
“Ah!” he shrieked as the cold water drenched his head and back.
Lu Zhiling tossed the empty bottle into the bin and turned to Bo Wang. Her eyes immediately softened, filling with a calculated look of dependence. She hurried to him, clutching his sleeve like a lifeline.
“Bo Wang! He tried to take advantage of me,” she whispered, her voice trembling just enough. “Replace him. Now.”
Bo Wang’s face turned a terrifying shade of dark. He looked at her, his voice a low, vibrating growl. “Did he touch you?”
“I dodged,” she murmured, leaning into him, “but his intentions were disgusting.”
Bo Wang’s gaze shifted to Qiao Yang. The veins in his neck were bulging. Qiao Yang scrambled backward, his legs shaking. “Mr. Bo, it’s a misunderstanding! I lost my balance! It was her—Secretary Lu threw herself at me! She said she was a fan… she even asked me to sign her chest!”
He was gambling on Bo Wang’s legendary paranoia. To suspect his own woman—that was the wedge Qiao Yang wanted to drive.
“I didn’t, Bo Wang,” Lu Zhiling said, her grip tightening on his suit jacket.
Bo Wang looked down at her for a long, agonizing silence. Then, he reached down and slowly unpeeled her hand from his arm.
Lu Zhiling’s heart plummeted. “I really didn’t. There is no one else in my eyes but you.”
Bo Wang didn’t answer. He put his arm around her shoulder, steering her out of the room and pressing her back against the hallway wall. “Stand here,” he commanded, his voice devoid of all warmth.
“Bo Wang…”
“It’s alright.” He leaned in, his palm cupping her throat with a possessive, heavy heat. His lips brushed against her ear, his breath ghosting over her skin. “Wait here obediently. If it gets too noisy… cover your ears.”
He stepped back into the tea room and kicked the door shut.
A second later, a blood-curdling scream tore through the wood. It was followed by the sickening sound of meat meeting bone. Bo Wang was not just fighting; he was dismantling him.
Outside, Chen Xueran stood trembling. She forced a pale smile at Lu Zhiling. “I… I had no idea Qiao Yang was such a beast. It’s a blessing President Bo is so protective.”
“Indeed,” Lu Zhiling replied, her voice cold as ice. “If he had ‘seen’ what Qiao Yang intended, I couldn’t clear my name even if I jumped into the Qingjiang River (a common idiom meaning even a great river couldn’t wash away the stain of a false accusation).”
The door opened and with the scent of copper and iron—the smell of fresh blood—wafted out.
Bo Wang emerged, calmly wiping his hands with a white tissue. A single, dark red spray of blood had landed on his eyebrow, looking like a sinister beauty mark.
“Your eyebrow…” Lu Zhiling whispered, refusing to look into the room behind him.
He wiped the blood away, grabbed her hand in a crushing grip, and pulled her toward his office. He didn’t spare Chen Xueran a single glance.
Inside the office, the curtains were drawn, leaving the room in a heavy, golden twilight. Bo Wang sat at his desk, pulling Lu Zhiling to stand between his knees. His fingers were burning hot.
“Qiao Yang was a plant,” she said softly, trying to de-escalate the violence vibrating off him. “Someone sent him to sow discord between us. I’m just glad you came when you did.”
“Is there CCTV in that room?” Bo Wang interrupted, his eyes boring into hers.
The air left Lu Zhiling’s lungs. “You… you don’t believe me?”
“Pull up the footage.”
He didn’t let go of her hand. Instead, he brought her fingertips to his mouth, nipping at the sensitive skin with his teeth. It was a gesture that was half-caress, half-threat. “Be a good girl. Pull the footage.”
He stood up, pressing her back against the mahogany desk. His hand slid to the small of her back, his thumb tracing the curve of her spine through the silk of her dress. The friction was electric, bordering on painful. “Why the hesitation, Zhiling? Are we feeling guilty?”
Lu Zhiling looked at his reflection in the dark computer monitor—he looked like a demon, beautiful and ruthless. She swallowed hard, her nails biting into her palms, before she reached out and logged into the security system.
They watched the screen together. The flickering light played over Bo Wang’s sharp features as the recording played: Qiao Yang reaching, Lu Zhiling dodging; Qiao Yang lunging, Lu Zhiling spinning away. She had been perfect. Cautious. Untouchable.
Only then did the murderous tension in Bo Wang’s shoulders vanish. He exhaled, pulling her into his lap and burying his face in her neck. “It’s alright now.”
“Is it?” she asked, her voice trembling with repressed fury. “If you don’t trust me, why are we even doing this? Why let me ‘play’ at being yours?”
“Trust has nothing to do with play,” he murmured, his large hand cupping her face, forcing her to look at him. His breath was hot, smelling of peppermint and adrenaline. “In this world, I trust no one. So, Lu Zhiling… never let me find evidence of your betrayal. If you do…”
He leaned in, his lips grazing hers, his voice a dark promise of ruin. “I will make you wish you were dead. I will break you until there’s nothing left to betray me with.”
Lu Zhiling felt a surge of resentment. She wanted to scream at him, to rail against his unfairness. But she knew the man he was—a man forged by the betrayal of everyone he once loved. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning her head on his shoulder like a fragile vine clinging to a storm-battered oak.
“What? Scared?” he asked, ruffling her hair.
“No,” she whispered into his ear. “I just think… it must be very lonely to live in a world where you can’t trust anyone. I wonder when the person you can trust will finally appear.”
“There is no such person,” he growled.
“There will be,” she lied gently, a layer of cold sweat coating her back. “And when she does, you’ll finally be happy.”
Thousands of miles away in Country C, in a villa filled with priceless jewels, Yu Yunfei admired a ruby ring.
“Madam Yu,” a maid whispered, “Qiao Yang is in the hospital. He won’t walk for months. The plan failed.”
Yu Yunfei smiled, the red stone catching the light. “I’m not surprised. If Lu Zhiling wants to survive at Bo Wang’s side, she cannot afford a single flaw. She’s smarter than we gave her credit for.”